McCann's Manor (8 page)

"He?"

"John Carter."

I was confused. “John?"

She searched my face a moment before she understood what I was asking. “John Carter Senior; your John's father."

"My John? He's only a friend, Missy.” I must have blushed because she smiled at me then.

"Old Mr. Carter was very dashing and handsome, too, like John.” Her voice took on a special tone when she spoke John's name. She looked at me a moment and then turned away before she continued. “There was something special between him and my mother, but it wasn't like that. They were in a film together and that is when the rumors started. He was always around after that. They were—close. But if you were there to see it, like I was, it was a closeness like a brother and sister would have, nothing like the bond between my mother and father. There wasn't anything else like that in the whole world."

Was Missy ever romantically involved with my John, I wondered, though I didn't dare ask for fear of interrupting what she was trying to tell me about her father. “Was your father suspicious of Mr. Carter?"

"No. Or maybe I should say not at first. Then Ptarmigan—"

"Ptarmigan? Who—or what—is Ptarmigan?"

She considered the question a moment. “I don't know why I called him that. There was a reason once, but it escapes me now. Anyway, Ptarmigan was a friend of my father's. At least he claimed to be, but he poisoned Daddy's mind against Mr. Carter; against Mother, too."

Should I ask? Would it ruin the natural unfolding of what she was trying to tell me? John had said Ptarmigan was one of Missy's monsters, but who was this man? Was he the same monster she had been running from in the first dream? Could I rely on this information, or was this just a dream spurred by my thinking about it so much? I said nothing, but waited for her to continue.

"He had pictures, see? They supposedly proved beyond any doubt that Mr. Carter and Mother were having an affair."

"Did you see these pictures?"

"Yes, I did. They were taken at the New Year's party and all they showed was a kiss—a simple kiss. Everyone kisses each other at those kinds of parties, especially actors—they're a real kissing bunch. It proved nothing."

"How many pictures were there?"

"I only saw one."

"But you said there were pictures, Missy."

She looked at me now with suspicion, backed away. “There were several pictures, but I saw only one close enough to know what was in it. My father kept them in a secret place in the library."

"I see. Do you think they're still someplace in the library?"

"I don't know. I think Ptarmigan took them when he killed my father."

My throat tightened and I felt queasy. “Ptarmigan killed your father?"

"Yes, that much I do know for sure. I heard them arguing in the library, so I peeped in. Ptarmigan had the gun and he was threatening Daddy with it. Daddy waved him off, saying he'd had too much to drink. He told Ptarmigan he didn't have any intention of giving him anything; that Mother was innocent of his accusations and he wanted to hear no more of the nonsense. That's when Ptarmigan growled at Daddy like an angry lion. He told Daddy he would never hear from him again, nor from anyone else, for that matter.

"Then he pushed the gun at Daddy's head and—” She dissolved into sobs, hands over her face. I felt sick. I believed she was telling the truth and that this Ptarmigan, whoever he might be, had indeed killed her father. At length, she brought her grief under control and spoke again, “After—he wiped the gun and put it into Daddy's hand. Then he picked up a bunch of things off the desk and left in a hurry."

"And he didn't see you?"

"No."

"But you were peeping through the door; how could he not see you?"

She looked hurt. “Don't you believe me?” She didn't wait for an answer, but then seemed to understand what I was asking and continued, “I wasn't in the hall, Elizabeth. There is a secret entrance to the library; I was peeping through the secret door. I'm the only one who knew about it. I didn't even tell Daddy about it."

"Will you show it to me sometime?"

"Why? Elizabeth, you don't believe me, either, do you?"

"Oh, Missy, it's not that. It is a selfish thing; I have always been intrigued with the thought of secret passages."

She smiled and seemed relieved, “This house has lots of them. Maybe I will show you."

"I would love that,” I told her. It was the truth. “So after Ptarmigan left, what happened then?"

"It was late. I went up and woke Mother. It was the weekend, you know; the servants always left before dark, so we were the only ones in the house. I tried to tell her what I had seen, but she was overcome with grief, I suppose. She kept saying it was all her fault. She said she should have tried harder to explain her relationship with Mr. Carter to Daddy. She sort of lost her mind, I think, for a time. But the harder I tried to tell her about Ptarmigan, the more she said I was the one who was deranged.

"She sent me to my grandparents, but I couldn't stay there, knowing the monster was free and that he might try to blackmail my mother the same way he had Daddy. I kept thinking if she refused to pay him money, would he just kill her too? Then what would become of me?"

"You poor dear. It must have been terrible for you. But who is Ptarmigan? Is he still alive?"

"Oh, he is alive and about the same age as John, I would think. He wasn't much older than I. I must have heard his name at some point, but all I know him by is Ptarmigan."

"Do you know where he is?"

Her eyes took on an eerie glow when I asked and for a minute I thought I was talking to someone else, but it was still Missy. She whispered, “Oh, he is around, you can bet on that. He is always close-by whenever John brings someone to the house. Don't trust anyone."

"What about John?” I asked, but I was talking to myself. Missy was gone. I still have dozens of questions. If Ptarmigan had killed her father, had he approached Betty, tried to blackmail her or John, Sr.? What was he blackmailing Leonard about? Or was Missy mistaken? If it had been a question of Betty's fidelity, it would seem more natural to have blackmailed Betty, not Leonard. Was Ptarmigan in New York at the institution where Missy had been sent, and was his purpose for being there to kill her, and if so, why? Ptarmigan—why would she call him Ptarmigan? Who was he?

And John—what about John? Had Betty and his father had a fling? Did John know about it? Had John and Missy been close, or merely friends—actors’ kids, thrown together by circumstance? How can I ask John these things without telling him the whole story? Can I trust him enough to tell him? Is there anything to tell him, or am I just working my imagination overtime? I will have to share all this with Kim in the morning, get her feedback on it.

It was four-fifteen in the morning when Liz gave up on trying to sleep and groped in the dark for the light. She reread the notes she had taken from her dream of Missy, then donned her slippers and robe before making her way to the door and down the stairs toward the library. She turned on the lights inside the library door, drenching the octagonal room in bright illumination. She blinked against the glare and waited for her eyes to adjust to the light. Missy had mentioned secret passages and Liz couldn't get the thought out of her mind.

She tiptoed into the library, shut the door behind her and stood in the center of the compelling octagonal room. After a few seconds, it occurred to her she was holding her breath. She shook her head, eased the air out before walking to the massive desk and sitting. Missy had been able to see both her father and Ptarmigan from her vantage point inside the secret passage but that would have been possible from most of the walls, since the desk sat near the center of the huge room.

Liz rose and circled the room, taking careful note of what one might see from behind one of the walls with reference to the desk. The two walls behind the desk were made up of the large windows, floor-to-ceiling, so that eliminated them. The two walls adjoining the windows also seemed unlikely to her, though she wasn't sure why. For all she knew about secret passageways, they might well have been the
most
likely choices. She mused a few moments on the structure of this huge impressive library, wondered why it had been designed with eight walls, not the standard four. Did its octagonal structure permit more room for shelves? What was the reason for it? It was interesting, she had to admit.

Two of the eight walls ran parallel to the ends of the desk. Standing behind either of those walls would have afforded one with the clearest side view of both the man sitting at the desk and the man standing in front of it. Of course, Ptarmigan could have been pacing and would have been visible from any vantage point, though Leonard's expressions would not have been perceptible from all points. Liz frowned. Had Missy said anything that would have led her to believe the girl had been able to see Leonard's face?

Maybe not, but when Liz thought about Missy's account, she could almost see Leonard's face in her mind's eye. Was that because it had been a dream or because she and Missy had such a strong psychic link? In the first dream about Missy, Liz had been one with the girl. Had that identification with Missy made her be able to see things through Missy's eyes all the time, or was Liz just imagining things?

No. Missy was watching from somewhere to the left of Leonard's desk. She had seen her father's facial expressions, had seen him as he was being shot to death. That was why she had felt so repulsed when Missy described it.

Not Missy's words, but rather the girl's own observations, had been what made Liz nauseous. She wondered what had kept the girl from screaming and thus giving away her position. How horrible it must have all seemed to her. Small wonder everyone thought she needed psychiatric help. But to know such a terrible secret and not be able to tell anyone who would believe her must have hurt her deeply.

Liz walked toward the wall of books where she expected to find the hidden passage. The second full wall to the right of the entrance to the room had to be it. As she studied the bookcase, a feeling of gloom settled on her, as though the atmosphere of the room itself had changed. She felt a chill, a dread. She had to turn and look into the room, but she didn't want to. She wanted to continue her examination of the bookshelf, which was why she had come into the room in the first place.

She was compelled to turn. She had to see what was in the room behind her. She took a deep breath, clenched her fists, pivoted. It was the same room, yet everything had changed. The electric lamps were gone and old-fashioned kerosene lanterns burned in their place. A man sat at the desk, a feathered quill pen in his hand as he wrote on a piece of parchment.
This must be McCann,
she thought as she crept across the room.

McCann looked up for a second as though he had heard her approach, but returned to his writing. A large, fluffy gray cat was curled up on the desk near his elbow purring. The cat watched her approach McCann, but showed no more than a passing interest in her as she continued across the room to look over the man's shoulder.

Liz found herself holding her breath again as she came near enough to McCann to read what he was writing. She knew he couldn't see her, any more than most people would have been able to see him, but something still made her cautious in her approach toward this huge man and his cat. She knew the cat did perceive her presence and could alert its master to something out of the ordinary, but that wasn't what frightened her. What did frighten her was that this was the most clearly visible apparition she'd ever seen. This was
his
place;
she
was the intruder here.

Yet something in his presence seemed kind, amiable. He had a long, shiny mane of rusty colored hair and his eyes looked dark, though she couldn't distinguish their color in the pale light. He must have stood more than six feet tall, his muscular frame an impressive sight to behold. His hands were large and calloused, the product of a life spent at hard work. But it was his aura that impressed her the most—bright and golden with hints of pink and purple, displaying what she interpreted as high intelligence and an even higher consciousness.

She was certain something in his essence had brought her here, wanted her to read his words. She read:

1 October 1792

My Darling Constance,

My heart is full of joy at your news of the child to be born, yet I am deeply troubled at the same time. Your family does not know of our vows taken in secret before my last departure and I fear their reaction when they learn you are with child. I have some money put by and I will send it to you. You should come to me immediately and not wait for the house to be completed.

Your place is with me now. I am ready and willing to be a father to the child and a husband to you, my Dearest. We will have everything we need, I promise you. Please do not tarry, but come to me directly. I have completed enough of the house for you and the child—our precious baby—to have a warm and comfortable place to live. The rest of the house will be completed by next spring.

I am a lonely shell of a man here in this wilderness without you, my Love. If you are not with me soon, I think I will lose my mind. I need your tenderness to make me strong in the face of my wicked partner. Spencer will stop at no ill in order to make more and yet more money. He promised me a new life, but he continues to use my sordid past against me to keep me bound to his will. I am no longer that man and I wish not to be constantly reminded of the mistakes I have made. But do not worry, my Precious one, I have almost saved enough to buy out his interest in the business; then we will be free of him and his unreasonable demands. He does not own me, although he seems to think he does.

I will not continue to be bound to his demands forever. I am sending you our wedding papers so you can allay your parents’ doubts. Please come to me now. I need you.

Your loving husband,

Benjamin

Benjamin McCann rubbed the back of his great neck with his immense weathered hand, sighed, then scratched the cat behind its ears. “Something is wrong, my little furry friend. I cannot quell the feeling. I will never see my unborn child or my beautiful wife in this house. And if that be true, what is life at all to me?"